For One Man's Faults
by Civillain
Summary: Joshua Graham was raised an only child, but he supposes, that there are a number of different ways for a man to acquire a brother without bloodties. Daniel finds Joshua after his execution. Joshua finds Daniel after the sacking of New Canaan. Pre-Honest H
1. The Samaritan's Injured Man

**Author's Note:** It's always bugged me, just a tad, that the relationship between Joshua Graham and Daniel wasn't explored more during the DLC. It's referenced periodically that the two of them are friends, and they clearly know one another well enough to argue details about one another for their cause, but aside from those things and other small details on the Wikipedia, everything else is just left blank. Hence, this. Because heck — this site needs more of these two sadomasochistic retards from time to time.

So, without further ado, I present this to thee:

* * *

 **₪1**

When he feels the immediate cool of a shadow moving along his face, he opens his eyes.

This is no hallucination brought on by prolonged dehydration or the misery of endless waves of pain. There _is_ a presence above him. He knows, for while severely damaged and emaciated he may be, Joshua Graham is legendary himself for his apparent durability. After all, many a rumour and tale have been made of such — and never before has he found his instincts to be off, aside from in slumber, perhaps.

Even now, in his current condition best described as dire, he looks up from the cracked asphalt below him to find his intuition intact, and, perhaps more importantly, that he is no longer alone.

He sees them first. A pair of brown, dusted low-heeled shoes characterised by multiple-piece, sturdy leather uppers with decorative perforations and serration along the visible edges. Out of all possible occurrences, these are things Joshua Graham does not expect to see, and he blinks in his surprise. Yes, shoes. And then, a pair of pale hands clasped together in between the bended knees of someone trying to get a better look at a lower level. In his wearied state, incapable of movement and speech, Joshua focuses upon them. The owner of these hands is no man of rough trades; hardly any sort of legionary, with the lack of calluses and scars, with no red welts from hard work. But then, once they bring one hand up towards him, he sees the callus that appears to have formed on the side of their trigger finger. A signature that Joshua also shares. He feels his heart beating harder in his chest.

A tense murmur of apparent distress, and whomever this is brings their hand away from where it hovered uncertainty above, having apparently decided that physical contact upon singed flesh blistered raw is the improper course of action. Joshua is thankful, and slowly again, he closes his eyes. The pain is agonising enough without pressure being applied. Why is this man here? He wonders, absently. Surely he is far too gone for most wanders of the Wasteland to bother. But then he remembered the Samaritan who stopped for the injured man — and the priest and the Levite who didn't.

But of course, he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people. And he will take upon him death, that he may lose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people.

This, Joshua Graham knows.

Slowly, very slowly, something cool presses against his upper cheekbone, and Joshua's eyes flicker open to be locked upon the gaze of another man. Eyes the colour of unpolished blue kyanite with flecks of navy. New Canaanite blue. Joshua understands then, that yes, it must be true; the haircut, kept tight and neat at the back and sides; the painfully familiar handgun settled securely under the arm and then, the rectangular shape, two pieces of sturdy lathered hardback containing the word of God.

A New Canaanite.

Joshua has been found by one of his own.

He's only a young one, but then, Joshua assumes that this also makes sense; often Missionaries leave as boys to come back men, from the age of nineteen for two years or much longer. This one here was old enough, definitely, to retain the form of an adult but not the confidence. Joshua idly wonders where his tribe is, or, if he even has one, for there is little reason for him being so close to Ogden territory if he ought to be working on spreading the word of God.

"Can you hear me?" He asks, and then, figures it out alarmingly quickly for someone so clearly out of their depth. "No— Uh, blink if you can hear me."

Joshua blinks, but before the boy can speak, he wrenches his head upwards and away from Joshua to look further down the road. There appears to be a consideration of their options, and Joshua waits for the decision to be made. He has the gut wrenching feeling of not being able to do much else.

The boy looks back at him, mouth set into a grim line. "I'm going to have to get you up. I can't help you here."

Here? Oh, yes. Joshua had collapsed in the middle of the road.

"I'm sorry." The boy grunts as he begins to raise Joshua into a standing position, kneeling by the Joshua's head and hooking his elbows under Joshua's shoulders. Slowly, he finds himself off of the floor at long last, and he feels the boy shifting his body-weight to his right leg, sticking it in between Joshua's own, and the firm grasp of the boy's arm grabbing his right hand. Joshua hisses at the contact, but the boy doesn't stop; he just splutters some form of sincere apology again as he squats down, keeping his back as straight as possible as he shifts Joshua up over his shoulder, so his torso is relatively perpendicular to the ground. "Sorry." He grunts again, grabbing a rucksack Joshua hadn't seen before with his free hand. "But I can't help you here. Too dangerous."

Perhaps it's the hope of being found by one of his own that does it, but Joshua manages, eventually, to speak. It is not an easy affair; his mouth is hopelessly dry and working his jaw is painful beyond belief. His eyes open again. "Thank you for finding what's left of me."

The boy startles a little, but when he speaks, Joshua detects some sombre amusement in his tone. "Wry. But, honestly, don't mention it." He lets out a noise of strain as he picks up the pace. "It's the least I can do for a fellow brother."

How he knows, Joshua doesn't — but it must mean something.

Home, perhaps.


	2. Forth Springs in The Valleys

**₪2**

The boy has two water bottles, and it appears, after a great amount of searching, a small metal flask that is usually meant for warm drinks. He props them against rocks in the stream so that two of them are always filling while he works on using the third to tend to Joshua.

They do not speak much, but this silence between them is in no way tense or pointed. Even though Joshua would like to indulge in his weakness for speech, particularly on those topics he knows the boy will understand— it is a relief to finally be in proximity to someone who doesn't just acknowledge his faith, but can relate in kind —he is still too weak for casual conversation. That, and the boy here seems occupied, and somewhat exhausted himself.

By the time they had stopped along the Ogden River, he had been carrying Joshua for at least four and a quarter hours.

It is made clear soon afterwards that, while no, this boy was no soldier — he wasn't exactly unprepared for the Wasteland beyond, either. He's a missionary of medical pursuits, it appears. For he doesn't just act on instincts and throw Joshua headlong into the river like a common mind might; he has a towel which he continually pours the water onto, and dampens the damaged skin, taking great care in how hard he does so, and for how often. It takes a while, but he finally manages to get rid of enough crusted dirt to gently unzip the ruined jacket without tugging, unbuttoning the damaged shirt he wore under that, and ease them both off of Joshua with as little pain as possible. His undershirt however, has plastered itself to his wounds. The boy grimaces when he sets his eyes on it and stops, then, with a look that could be nothing aside from supreme discomfort, he grabs a nearby pocket knife.

"I am very, very sorry about this."

And he really is, it seems, because his expression is more pained than Joshua's actually is. He has to cut it away and then drench Joshua again to work it loose. Joshua himself sits there, uncomplaining, while the boy washes away all the traces of dirt from his skin.

"You're a missionary?" Joshua eventually asks when the boy is digging through his rucksack, pulling out a small orange bottle. The boy nods. "What is your name?"

"Daniel." The boy replies, quietly as he walks across the bank to hand him two little white pills. "Here, swallow these— Daniel Delamere. Are you hungry?"

"I haven't been hungry for days." And, true enough, when Daniel offers him something to eat, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. At that point, something shifts across Daniel's face.

"We need to get some food in you." He insists, but the best he can do is to get Joshua to eat a few bits of dried meat. It's easy to swallow and tasteless. He lets it go after that, it seems, for he moves across back to his rucksack and looks down at it with his hands on his hips and frustration written clearly across his features. "Okay," he calls. "I don't have anything for serious burns, but I have an idea."

Joshua looks at him, and blinks.

"I've got gauze... But, not enough. Yet. Rather than use it all I can keep it in two and rotate them periodically, so you will always have a clean pair... It's just, uh." He runs a hand along the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable to some sizable degree. Joshua can see why. It is hardly a cool day, and that boy must be bogged down with at least an inch of clothing. "I'm just thinking, I mean, I can carry you a little, but not... It would depend on where you felt the bandages would be most comfortable."

Joshua looks away.

Caesar had hit him with the torch at the base of his neck, just at the top of his spine between his shoulder blades. The burns are more prominent around there. He can feel them. But, like the boy—... _Daniel_ , had said, if he was carrying Joshua... Yes, he thinks, it's mostly his torso and legs. He has dealt with it thus far, for six long months, but...

The chance for a even the smallest bit of relief from this constant _pain_. It is desirable. Joshua inhales slowly and closes his eyes. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all, of course, but he shouldn't mind, to have a little help.

When he opens his eyes again, he does so to find that Daniel has since stepped forwards a few times, and he is examining Joshua with eye-catching concern from his current distance. Joshua considers on asking, but the boy squints as he is about to, and adds, quietly, in a tone flat and forbidding with the apparent professionalism of someone clearly in their element.

"Those pills aren't working, are they?"

Joshua shakes his head.

"I... Think I can try something else, but again, this is down to you." He says and Joshua regards him again with his full attention. "I've heard about this. Chem resistance. There's only a few ways to find out... And well, uh, I've only got one on hand. That is if you _want_ to find out now. I wouldn't want to push you or anything, uh, of course."

"Med-X." Joshua says, and Daniel nods in the way of reply. "I haven't..."

"I understand. I— I mean. I usually prefer it if— As much as I wish people wouldn't touch alcohol or chems at all..."

And Joshua can see why; Daniel is one of the few people in this Wasteland that Joshua has met who is, visibly at least, completely clean. His pallor, his weight and build. It's something only used to find in legionaries, which is both entirely down to the fact that New Canaanites and Legion both tend to have a very strict policy on the usage of chems — the rest of the Wasteland rarely follows such restraint. But, that comparison... No. Joshua banishes it from his mind. No use in thinking about them anymore. Only in reflection of righting his past actions shall he do so. It's not fair on the boy, either.

Slowly, Joshua nods his head. "If it will determine, then go ahead."

Daniel nods and rummages through his bag for a few moments, producing a roll of bandages, a syringe and a small clear bottle.

And true enough, when Daniel administers the shot, nothing seems to happen. The boy has bandaged the majority of his upper chest and stomach, and is working on his left leg when it becomes apparent that Joshua is not feeling anything. Just the pain. Daniel regards him with a sense of remorse.

"We'll find a way." He grumbles, more to himself than Joshua, and with that confirmation, Joshua allows himself to relax. If he was looking for trial on account of his past deeds, he wasn't going to find them here.


	3. Missionary By Trade

**₪3**

They doze off while the weather is at its hottest, but by late afternoon they are moving again. Daniel cannot help but take some comfort from their current situation; from Zion Canyon up to the outskirts of Ogden he moved close to constantly, rarely stopping, and keeping at the same thirty-mile a day pace that had brought him south in the first place. It wasn't easy. He's lost about a third of his body-weight since leaving New Canaan.

But now that he has Joshua in tow, however, events are set to move a lot slower than before. And Daniel, well, he actually doesn't mind this; either Joshua or the slower pace. It's a welcome change. One he doesn't mind adapting to.

After all, he was getting a bit sick and tired of spiking his water with powdered electrolyte-replacement mixes.

But even with careful pacing and slower movement, Joshua cannot walk for very long. He's not surprised. If what Mark tells him is true, the Battle of Hoover Dam really _did_ end in a bad way; and it appears that Joshua's current condition is a perfect reflection of such. Joshua cannot physically stay upright. Not for very long, anyway.

Daniel can see it, of course, and he reacts accordingly, but he does not mention it. He doesn't have to be aware of the details to identify a bad subject when he sees one, and the Legion, yes — that is one very bad subject to have to bring up in conversation. So he doesn't.

He just keeps on talking about other things. Zion. Raiders. Great Salt Lake. Locals. New Canaan. It's a rambling series of recent memories and highlighting tales that he digs up randomly from his subconscious. If this was any other scenario, Daniel _would_ accuse himself of rambling, but it appears that Joshua is appreciative of the constant commentary. It keeps the older man awake when he wants to be and helps him sleep when he needs to. It's just a reminder, Daniel supposes, that he's not alone after all. So he obliges. It actually keeps him of sound mind. Something to distract himself with.

Yes, Daniel is nervous.

He isn't going to lie, he can't see anything... _Positive_ , coming out of returning to New Canaan like this. He refrains from mentioning it because he doesn't want to put Joshua in any more emotional turmoil than he might be suffering with, but twenty to thirty something years is a long time for someone to be gone, particularly in a community like theirs — and, well, it wasn't like Joshua's exit was particularly honourable in the first place. The elders were ashamed, completely, utterly — nobody would mention him in or out of the town walls, and to do so generally caused a bit of ruckus. Daniel had certainly never mentioned it, but then, he comes from a generation that was, at best, kept in the metaphorical dark when it came to their taboo truths.

Mordecai was not going to be happy.

But then, Mordecai was never happy about anything, really, so Daniel was never going to win any kudos. The old man was forever unimpressed.

They make it about five miles down, with Joshua propped up on Daniel's shoulder, and he can tell that Joshua is about to collapse when the crack of a gunshot powers overhead as loud as thunder but without the raw power of a rainstorm. Daniel hasn't been in a full blown firefight since that little skirmish with the mercenaries half a year ago, and while the ragged scar along his stomach might be more prominent than ever — his combat skills...

Less than desirable, he would say, as he panics and throws them both down near the closest form of cover he can find. A rock, more of a boulder, of large enough size that he can stand double bent without getting his head shot off.

At Joshua's pained grumble, Daniel winces and blurts out some apology or another, trying to recall where the bullet had come from as he slides his handgun free from his holster. Of course, he'd like to just pop out of cover and give them a run for their money, but he can't do that while the closest thing he has to an ally here is whacked. Paper white; even burned, panting, and, even though he's only just cooling off, shivering.

So Daniel is surprised, to say the least, when Joshua extends his right hand.

"My weapon."

It's on top of the pile in his pack, and Daniel waves towards it as he grabs him a spare magazine. "Are you...?" He doesn't want to push, but then, he's not exactly comfortable having Joshua in this fight. If it will even come to that. Chances are, it's going to be a lone raider or two.

"Perfectly."

"Huh, if you're sure."

He is. He really is. If Daniel wasn't a bad decision away from looking down the barrel of a rifle, he'd be alarmed at the concept of a man in this much agony, and that much difficulty, cover him with the same quality as any able bodied fellow might. It leaves him feeling thankful, in a way, and it's probably Joshua who ends up winning them that fight; outnumbered, all of them armed with .45 automatic machine guns.

Daniel catches the first one out; they turn the corner just as Daniel steps from cover. He's not sure who is the most surprised.

He gets skimmed across the arm, biting back the startled half-scream, half-groan as he swaps hands, balancing his firearm in his right and firing. In that time, Joshua has taken down two of them with timed precision shots from his position further away. He's none too sure if this was just a scouting party or a smaller part of a bigger group, and he's not waiting around to find out, honestly. Raiders are not tribals — tribals do not actively seek out conflict, generally. He doesn't want to be here if there are more of them. They'll follow the sound of gunfire for sure.

And he's not confident enough to shoot with two busted arms. His right arm? Sure. New Canaanites are known for scoffing at single hand dependency; "ambidexterity" is practically their motto, but he's not _that_ talented.

Joshua's eyes move from behind Daniel to his arm in a matter of mere seconds. "Daniel," He calls, brows lowering. "You're bleeding."

He waves away Joshua's concern, grabbing the man as gently as he can as he tries to hook his bag over his shoulder. "It's fine." He grunts, achieving the latter of his attempts as they start moving again. But it isn't, really. It stings, for one, and the further they move the less concerned he becomes about raiders and the more he becomes about infection. They end up sitting on a bank, and Daniel pushes Joshua's head between his knees so he can come around properly as he cleans the wound up. It really is nothing more than a scratch, but that's hardly the concern; that bullet cut through his undershirt, flannel and his jacket. If that had hit him solidly, he'd be in a right state. There's no two ways about it.

"Those men had .45's," Joshua comments once he's settled again. Daniel breathes out slowly as he dabs his arm with an antiseptic wipe. "Things have changed since I last frequented this area."

"And not for the best, I have to say." Daniel replies eventually, tossing the wipe, then after a moment's consideration Joshua's broken things as well, under a nearby rock. "Spanish Fork. There was a military base there; it used to hold weapons for the U.S. Army and National Guard."

"What happened?"

" _They_ happened." Daniel shrugs. "Broke in, I suspect. Tribals have been using them the most. White Legs."

"What about the other tribes? The Dead Horses?"

Daniel looks at him for a few seconds, gauging, trying to put this into words that won't offend or upset unnecessarily. "After the Legion... It wasn't welcome news. From what I recall, we've gone nowhere near them since."

At Joshua's expression, Daniel stands and grabs his rucksack.

"But then, I've been sitting in a cave explaining the differences between 'where, were', 'there, their', and 'as and like' for the past two and a bit years," he says only half-jokingly as he gestures for Joshua to lift his arm up, new bandages in hand. "So it's fair game to say I've missed a thing or two."


	4. Spake this Parable Unto Certain

**₪4**

When Daniel was fourteen, he broke his father's arm with a single punch.

The thing was, he can't quite remember the incident that started it, nor can he differentiate what's purely his memory and what's been added in by the form of his mother's retelling, but the most that Daniel can recall is being dragged out behind his family's home in New Canaan and being made to participate in several rounds against his father. He hadn't liked that; he'd gone running to his mother in tears as soon as the man released him, leaving his father swearing, sobbing himself, clutching the useless limb in one great paw while withering around on the dirt out back. Thinking back, Daniel hadn't liked his father much. Oh, he loved the man, for all of his faults, but _now_ — Yes.

He can defiantly recall all the childhood memories that included Stephen Delamere usually evolved around fear.

Daniel had been afraid of his father, very afraid, from a very early age.

It wasn't like that with Mordecai. Never was.

He, Bishop Mordecai, idolised Daniel after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and the occasional grab of the collar, but never any... No _violence_. Daniel, Stephan saw, was a Delemare man through and through. Not one for much height, but the strength and wit of a good warrior, yes.

While Mordecai was occasionally cold and calculating, he wasn't harsh— no forced fights, no needing to change. Mordecai had been nothing aside from Daniel's godfather, but they had more in common. Daniel loved Mordecai wholeheartedly, in a similarly potent, yet fundamentally different manner. Daniel liked his elder sister; he was frequently drawn to Carla's shell-like smallness; but he adored Mordecai with a ridiculous, loverlike devotion that almost made his mother pity the child. Mordecai was not usually forgiving. Daniel was. Daniel was delighted to spend any and all time with the Bishop any day as a boy, as delighted as he would have been suffering to his sister's games or sorting washed socks with his mother, actually.

 _Actually_ , yes. Daniel was known for being the "delighted one". He had remained undemanding and cheerful, and he recalls his mother being unable to imagine how from Stephan's cynical idealism, his tense bonhomie, and her melancholy had sprung this sun child. Daniel wasn't just accommodating; he simply expanded, with great good humour and faith, to fill any space you happened to put him in.

So when Stephan swung a little too hard one evening and Daniel retaliated, shocked with the pain and the unsure, momentary anger of an equally unsure adolescent, nobody really expected Daniel to break the man's arm in one. Neither did Daniel. From that point onward, he had declared, first to his mother, then to Mordecai after the service had ended, that he was never going to hit another man again. Mordecai had looked it at him a bit more closely after that.

"Never again, you say?" He asks as he points towards one end of the couch in his office, and Daniel slumps. "That will be hard, very hard, boy. You remember what John taught us. Not all violence can be avoided."

"I hurt him." Daniel replies, grumbling, which he knows Mordecai hates, but he can't raise his voice. "Hurt him real bad. That was fear, I think. When I did it."

"Oh, just because you hurt him doesn't mean he'll be afraid of you. I think your father hated what he did to you, to make you do that. If anything he may be horrified with himself. And that's why he preached peace."

"He preached peace because that's what Christ preached," Daniel grunted.

"'The Lord is my strength and song," quoted Mordecai. "And he is become my salvation'."

"Exodus fifteen," said Daniel, almost whining. "It's Moses. Old Testament. It doesn't apply. And I wasn't talking about him. I was talking about me. I did what I did 'cause I was scared of him."

"You are right to be afraid of him." Mordecai notes as he stands, pacing one end of his office. Daniel looks through the window across New Canaan. "Your father is aggressive and foolhardy. He drinks, and he uses his fists when he drinks. It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones.' Did your father quote that?"

"He quoted it."

"And then he took you out and thrashed you, and you hit him back. What you did is not wrong. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer. _That_ , boy, is the most important thing."

"You know my biggest fear is?" Said Daniel, suddenly. "But the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth. As much as I am terrified of him, what I'm afraid of the most is that I'll end up just like him."

"You won't, boy." Mordecai shakes his head.

Daniel looks up at him. "Can you promise me that?"

Unsurprisingly, the Bishop doesn't reply.

The act of not hitting another man lasts for another seven years.

It ends, when Daniel and Joshua finally make it back to New Canaan after three days of hard travel, and it's his step-brother Mark who he slogs.

It pains him to think that this is how he's going to be remembered, coming home, but he knows there is little choice. How out of all the people he had problems with, it was Mark, of all people. His own brother.

But, Daniel also expected it.

Mark has spent the past three years in the NCR as a medic. Since the Battle of Hoover Dam, he's no longer wearing his uniform, but the rift is there. Joshua is going to split it completely in two, and that thought hurts, because he loves Mark dearly, but Daniel has made up his mind; he's had a think, over the past day and night. Mark is a lot like Stephan was. Easy to anger and quick to act. There was never going to be any stopping him.

The sound of Daniel's fist smacking into Mark's stomach is loud enough to turn the heads of everyone nearby. They thought Mark was running towards Daniel, but when they see Joshua leaning up against the wall, and Daniel standing over a gasping Mark, the men up on the battlement and down the road make the correct deductions from there. Daniel, who hit Mark, was protecting the man to their far right. His mother comes out of the house, stooped over and greyed, but shrill and worried with alarm, along with one of his sisters. Daniel regards Carla firmly, but gently— he knows it's her because she's the only one shorter than he, and still blonde —telling her to get Joshua inside, _please_ , while he deals with their brother.

"Don't get up." He tells Mark, who rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up onto all fours, retching. "Please— I _really_ don't want to have to hit you again."

"You traitorous—" Mark slumps back down when Daniel takes a step forwards, his mother, he sees, is standing near the doorway. She doesn't know what to do. Neither of her sons are five anymore; she can't just pull them apart and knock their heads together. Two of the men down the road are walking towards them now. "Do you know who that man is!?" Mark nearly screams.

"I saw the quotation on his handgun and he confessed the moment he was sure. Doesn't take much." Daniel nods. "Joshua Graham is back in New Canaan where he belongs."

"You know what he's done! What he's... and _you_ —"

"— Don't go making me the bad guy here, Mark."

Mark charges from his crouched position and slams into Daniel's middle, and the next few moments are a crazy series of sharpened moments where Daniel goes from on his back, to on top of Mark, and then some other way before they are eventually separated, dragged up from the dirt. They need more men to pull Mark away; he's bigger and taller than Daniel ever would be, and the sudden gush of pain jolting thought Daniel's middle confirmed as such. His stomach ached, his legs had lost tension and his tongue was soaked in the taste of blood. Bruised and winded, with a leg in agony, he grabbed hold of the man helping him up. His head was pounding. Mark's nose looks as if it's been snapped into a grotesquery.

Someone helps him indoors, and Daniel spends the first afternoon home in two years bleeding out and doped up on Med-X.

It takes ten minutes for Mordecai to show, fifteen for him to understand the situation properly, and another three of them to get Daniel lucid and coherent enough to answer his questions. It's a long, long series of minutes after that. Daniel propped up on the chair in his mother's living room with one leg propped up and his mouth a series of bruises. Mordecai seems placated, when he hears that Joshua has survived his treatment from the Legion.

But then, he and Mordecai knew one another from childhood. Funny that, Daniel thinks, that he's the one tying them together after all these years.

"If I hadda not hit 'im, he'd a hadda hit Joshua. N'he can't get hit. Silly'd just fall'ver." Daniel slurs, unfocused with the pain relief, and accompanies his sad lament with a long, unamused face that he must have picked up form Mordecai at some point because the man actually _laughs_.

"Judge not, that ye be not judged." Mordecai sets a hand on Daniel's head when he stands to take his leave. "The Good Lord welcomes both of his wayward son's home."

When they all leave, allowing Daniel to recover and Joshua to rest before examination, the former of which sits feeling woozy and sorry for himself, Carla leans over the back of his chair and presses her mouth up against his hairline. His eyes flicker open in momentary confusion.

"Some homecoming, wasn't it?" She asks, innocently enough.

And Daniel laughs so hard he almost cries.


	5. Self Preservation

**₪5**

Joshua's eyes snap open. Morning light trickled through the blinds, creeping, steadily along the faded wallpaper, dust motes floating in the bars of thick, pale sunshine that had managed to penetrate the dinge clinging to the outside of the windowpanes. Naturally, the room inside wasn't so, not even dusty; a life of bachelor independence had made Daniel Delemare a creature of cleanliness, and the dirt wasn't nearly thick enough to stop the sun's rays from brightening the room as it was. Crystalline blue eyes blink, warding off the stab of photosensitivity and before he allows his body to adjust, he swings himself up and plants his bare feet against the carpeted floor. Toes curling, he looks across the room.

Daniel stares back at him, half paused between the action of putting an ice pack on his stomach.

"Oh," He notes, hissing out as he places the blue block onto the busies, gingerly. "You're up... uh, _early_."

"What happened to your face?" Joshua blinks. Daniel grimaces.

"Turns out, the NCR isn't all that friendly."

"As I have made mortal enemies of the Legion, you have done so with the New California Republic?" Joshua just about manages to sound mortified. Daniel gives him a flat look.

" _You_ of all people are not allowed to lecture me on self-preservation. If I wanted to get told off, I'd pester Mordecai." Daniel grunts in reply. "Now sit up properly," he waves over towards a pack of bandages over on the bedside table. "You've been asleep for three days. It's time to get those bandages changed."


	6. They Who Run the Furthest

**₪6**

Not long after Daniel declared that he was remaining on-post as a missionary, two weeks to the day after they returned to New Canaan, the boy passed through the residential area, unannounced as far as these things go, while on the way visiting Mordecai. Joshua Graham later believed that he had made a special detour; it was like Daniel to anticipate— and, he will admit, anticipate correctly —how Joshua would feel on any given day, and today, Joshua had just about managed to feel depressed. He had stepped outside, once, only to hear the morning's topic. The same topic of the morning that had been yesterday, last week, and the week before that. Him.

No teases on the more popular of residents, or stories about travel beyond the walls. Just Joshua.

He had gone inside almost immediately after again.

Not long after it became unbearable, Daniel had returned back to the house looking grim — and distressed.

"You would think that nothing interesting has ever happened to them before." Daniel growled, actually _growled_ , as he threw his jacket onto the hook and then collapsed onto the couch without another word on the matter, where he would then remain for the better part of the evening before dinner, like clockwork. Joshua did not bother to ask him to elaborate; Daniel was a heavy, if infrequent, sleeper. To try and wake him now would be pointless.

So Joshua instead worked on the firearms and any other mechanical numbers that had come across his way. He was strong enough, now, to stand up straight unassisted and walk around the house for a few minutes at a time, and had found himself bored rather than that of pained, hence the meddling with mechanical objects. New Canaanites were known for their talents with machinery; it was inborn, while perhaps with more pride then what was strictly healthy. Even Daniel, who was himself better with a surgical knife and a English dictionary then that of a wrench, was apparently rounded enough to— and Joshua quotes here from the Missionary himself —"Blow a hole the size of Texas" in the nearest rock face if he really wanted to.

And, yes. Daniel, often than not, _really_ wanted to. His... _interest_ in explosives would be worrying if it not useful.

Rarely did Joshua's work lead him outside, however — and while Daniel could complain at him about eating a full square meal regularly to the point of habit, he couldn't force Joshua out.

He never forced Joshua outside.

Oh he wined and complained about it, but when Joshua finally snapped, Daniel gave up. The heated exchange had boy spend the entire afternoon and following night in town and when he finally did return, he never mentioned it again. Neither of them did, to a point.

So when Daniel did mention it again, it surprised Joshua.

He went into the garage to find the boy stood off towards the south wall, frowning at a vague, unsure rectangular object propped up on a nearby table. Joshua rounded it to see that it was some painting of a girl. Daniel snorted.

"She's breathtakingly unattractive. But, before the War, she was worth over thirty-million dollars."

Joshua blinks and gives a sidelong glance at Daniel; he's still staring at it. He looks nothing short of horrified.

"Half an hour ago I got up for a snack or two and she caught my eye. In the end, I just stood here in the dark squinting at her. Poor thing ruined my appetite. Even when I went back to nap, all I could think about was... well, I couldn't go back to sleep, either."

"Then why did you acquire it?" Joshua asks.

Daniel runs through about fifteen different facial expressions, starting with confusion, then onto that quick anger that he always had right before he realised that he had made an incorrect snap judgement, the self-disgust in response to the fact that he even had the capacity to have such an angry response to a comment so harmless, and then something between amusement and horror. The latter two were the expressions he settled on, which barely masked what looked to be a sudden deeper realisation. Joshua found himself in utter disbelief at how clear these emotions were, as someone who was generally unsure of others ever since...

He shifted, uncomfortable.

Of course, why Daniel was acting this way, of that Joshua had no clue.

"Oh my God no," Daniel laughs. "She's not _mine_."

"Oh?"

"Mordecai want's her. No idea why, but he can't exactly shove it from one side of New Canaan to the other by himself. That's where I come in."

"Let me guess, he has you doing the shoving."

Daniel lets out a half-grunt half-laugh. "It's become frightfully obvious that Mordecai is giving me more and more responsibility."

Joshua echoed that word in his mind and frowned. It turned out that his earlier perception of Daniel was actually incorrect. Yes, he trained as a doctor, but as far as Joshua could tell he physically _worked_ as nothing of the sort. When the resident physician, Angela, came to look Joshua over and prescribe him with the necessary works to get him back up to strength, Daniel had been nowhere in sight. Without a doubt, they were friends, or once had been. It was hard for Joshua to tell; her husband, Ty, was a former NCR Ranger.

That alone was enough to complicate things.

"Couldn't he find another man to take your place?" Joshua asked, guardedly. "I thought you were a doctor."

"Surgeon." Daniel harshly corrected, and then grimaced, the line of his mouth setting into that grim familiar line, one of the many warning signs of an unwanted explosion of temper. Daniel breathed in and shook his head. "I'm... uh... retired," he said. "I can't imagine... you know. After my first placement—" His _first_ placement? Joshua looked him over suddenly, alarmed. No that couldn't be right. He looked too young. "—I just... Joshua, I couldn't do that now. I don't think I could even work part time, even. Plus anyway, Mordecai said I'm a good missionary. Might as well as just stay on and work with the tribes indefinitely. I mean, there _is_ a shortage."

He breathed in again and slipped his hands into his pockets.

"Speaking of." He said, distractedly, and bounced once on the back of his heels in agitated energy. "I'm ditching out and going back down South."

"You're leaving New Canaan?"

Daniel looked at him, properly. "Not just me. Unless, of course, you think you're not up to it." Before Joshua could reply, he stuck a hand up. "Look, no offence, but this isn't going to get any better. Trust me on this. New Canaan is rumour ridden by nature." He opened his mouth to say something else, but seemed to think better of it, running a hand through his hair and diverting. "Heck, don't get me wrong, I love these people, I really, really do, but they're starting to make me uncomfortable, and if _I'm_ uncomfortable."

He gives a meaningful look at Joshua.

"It won't be for long. Perhaps a few weeks. We could even swing by Dead Horse Point, I mean, if you... I sort of figured you might want 'n have and all." Sighing, Daniel did his nervous hand clenching again, where he shoves his hands into his pockets and scrunches his fists up tight. Joshua can tell because the muscles in his arms constrict and harden to the point of the boy's entire upper torso becoming ridged. "Truth be told, I think we're both sick and tired of staying in one place."

Well, he isn't wrong.

Joshua sighed, longingly thinking of his handgun and how easily he could just take it apart and put it back together again, and how he could do that all day.

"When?" He asked. Even though he couldn't quite shake the feeling that they were running from something.

And let it be said, that Joshua Graham knows what running feels like.


End file.
